


not a scar but a flower

by pocketfox



Category: Natsume Yuujinchou | Natsume's Book of Friends
Genre: Character Study, Families of Choice, Gen, Natori Protection Squad, Natsume Week, Urihime's Developing Sense of Self-Worth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-07 14:51:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15221579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketfox/pseuds/pocketfox
Summary: “I brought you something,” the boy says, the next time he comes to visit.Urihime stares up at him because she has no other choice. “You have already given me a name.”“Yes, well,” the boy says blithely. “Now I’ve brought you something else.”





	not a scar but a flower

He is a young and lovely human, the kind she might have once liked to steal away when the world was younger.

The first time he comes, he leaves her, as all the passing youkai have done. She asks him to exorcise her and he doesn’t. She does not expect him to return and he does. He returns, free of the creature that was stalking him, with a large canvas bag slung over one shoulder.

He says he wants to learn from her.

He says, “Can I call you Urihime?”

He says, “I think maybe I can untangle this vine.”

The vine is twisted through her veins, and she is sure that removing completely will kill her. At this point, Urihime does not especially care.

“How?”

“I can slowly shift the direction of the vine by using wire and selective cutting to shape the vine,” the boy explains. “It will take a little time.”

She has been in this grove for years, at least, perpetually trapped watching the world from its lowest point. “I do not care,” she says. “I would do anything to be free of this.”

The boy kneels next to her and holds his bag open so she can see the bundle of gardening tools inside. “I hoped you might say that.”

 

 

The boy’s name is Natori. He learned to garden from his mother, now dead, and seems to always smile. He is only a fledgling exorcist and is ignorant of many obvious things.

Urihime does not mind. She finds she is happy to answer any question he asks, for as long as he chooses to visit her. 

“I brought you something,” the boy says, a week later.

Urihime stares up at him because she has no other choice. From this angle, his blond head is framed by a halo of foliage and blue sky. “You have already given me a name.”

“Yes, well,” the boy says blithely. “Now I’ve brought you something else.” He holds the object out and low, so she can see it clearly.

It’s a comb. A fairly handsome one, made from dark polished wood, intended for brushing hair instead of decoration.

“I thought you might like it for your hair,” the boy continues. He glances down at her tangled mess. “Although I supposed it would be hard to hold without, um. Hands. I’m sorry—I didn’t think until just now…”

“It’s lovely,” Urihime says. Against her will, she feels tears pricking at the corner of her eyes, so she closes them to keep from crying. “Thank you.”

The grove is silent a long moment. Then, there’s a rustling and displacement of air as a body moves closer to her. She opens her eyes to see the boy sitting cross-legged not a foot away. “I could comb it out for you, if you like.”

His eyes are the same dark red as drying blood, or late autumn leaves. They look confident, but his hands hover uncertainly above her head, waiting for permission.

Urihime tilts her head up—the closest thing she can manage to a nod. “Thank you. I would like that.”

Natori works slowly, focusing on one chunk of hair at a time and smoothing it out. It is sometimes painful, but he does his best to be gentle with the knots and murmurs quietly about his day as he does so. When he is done, he twists her hair into a glossy snakelike coil beside her.

“There,” he says. “Lovely.”

She is sure he is just being kind.

 

 

The boy carries another curse with him, clearly visible on his skin. Urihime has seen similar curses before on youkai who have been particularly careless—a handprint the color of fresh blood, or a flower mark that loses petals as its keeper dies—but not this exact curse. Not something that goes so deep and acts as if in accordance to its own mind.

“I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “It could be anything. I don’t know for sure.”

They both watch as the lizard squirms its way across his knuckles, as if searching for something. It’s clear from his grimace that Natori finds it repulsive, but Urihime thinks there is some charm to the lizard’s behavior. It seems to favor sunlight, as it frequently lingers on the boy’s hands and face.

Natori sighs. “I suppose it would have been too easy if you did know, anyway.”

“I’m sorry,” she says again, turning until her hair hides her face. She wishes to do something for the boy, in return for all of he has done, is doing for her, but she’s useless for even something so simple.

“Really, don’t worry about it.” Natori leans back against her tree and closes his eyes, turning his face up to a patch of sun. She watches the lizard dart across his face and settle on a cheekbone. “Some things take time.”

 

 

“Urihime,” Natori takes to saying whenever he visits, satchel full of books or sealing circles or gardening tools, “you look beautiful today.”

The boy sounds like he believes the things he says.

“I am ugly,” Urihime points out with unwavering certainty.

But Natori always beams at her, as radiant as a lightning bolt. “You look beautiful to me.”

 

 

By midsummer, her arms are free. For the first time in years, Urihime can prop her self up. Can touch her own face and comb her own hair. She feels as if she could do a million things, even still half-twisted in the tree.

Sometimes, the half of her that is free is tempted to tear the remaining half apart, shred the vines and smash the gourd against the ground, even if it leaves her a cripple.

She does not.

Instead, she waits for Natori to return.

His visits are random but frequent enough that she stops worrying he will go away forever. Usually, he checks on the vine or quietly reads from yellowed books and occasionally offers up observations or questions ( _What happens to youkai when they are exorcized? Have you ever seen someone use a reverse water circle?_ and _What do you know about ittan-momen?_ ), which she answers as well as she can. He tells her about a maddening young exorcist and a school play for which he plans to audition. Sometimes, she offers her own observations or stories, but mostly she is content to listen.

In this way, they endure summer and enter into fall.

Only her feet are tangled when Natori asks her about the names. She can bend her knees and waist, turn her body halfway and stretch herself long enough to touch the roots of the nearest tree. Sitting up, she can see in all directions except directly behind her tree.

She is telling Natori what she knows binding a shiki when he asks, “What is it about a name that makes it so powerful?”

Urihime falls silent, startled. She knew humans were careless with names, but this level of ignorance seems remarkable, even for an exorcist. “To name something is to imbue it with incredible emotion. It forges a bond between the name giver and the named. To give someone a name is a gift; to give someone your name is to give them power over you. It is the same way with humans.”

From where he sits across from her, Natori narrows his eyes in consideration. “But parents give their children names all the time, and friends give each other nicknames. Spouses give each other their own names whenever they marry.”

“Acts of love can be powerfully binding.”

Natori looks unconvinced. He tears restlessly at a fallen leaf, apparently content to rip it to smaller and smaller shreds. “Not all parents love their children, though, and sometimes bullies give people names out of cruelty.”

Urihime tilts her head in acknowledgement. “Cruelty is also a powerful bond.”

Natori huffs. “This all seems very subjective. What if someone gives themselves their own name?”

A clever question. She smiles. “It is rarely done, among youkai, but to do so is a remarkable act. It gives the creature power over themselves.”

“Why don’t all youkai do that, then, if it makes them so powerful?”

Urihime shrugs, and marvels in her ability to do so. “Most youkai treasure the names they receive, while others have no desire for self-control. It is the same with humans.”

“I suppose,” says Natori, although he looks deep in thought. He tosses his handful of leaf away from him and dusts his hands. “Would you have told me what your name was, before I met you?”

“If you asked me, perhaps.” A cloud shifts, and Urihime lifts a hand to block the sun from her eyes. “But I find myself quite happy with the one you’ve given me.”

 

 

When the last of the leaves are slick red puddles on the forest floor, Urihime crawls free of the tree. Natori is not there when it happens, so she stretches her toes and her legs and her arms and waits for him to return.

“Ah,” he says, when he sees her. He comes to a stop a few feet from her tree and stares down at the vine, still alive and miraculously green. “You’re free.”

“Yes.” Urihime does not miss the fact that he is smiling widely at her. She thinks this particular smile means he is very sad.

“I see,” he says. “What will you do next?”

Urihime tilts her head.

(The thing about being pinned to one place is that eventually, you have to look at it. She has watched the world in bloom: clouds of birds breaking through her sorrow and stray humans lost or laughing and always oblivious to her. Every year, the grove cycled from flowers to summer green to trees dipped in scarlet. Even in winter, there was a stark loveliness to the naked trees and fallen snow.

Now that she is once again part of the world, there are many paths she could follow—return to her sisters in the mountains, wander freely as she will, seek revenge for her master’s cruelty—but Urihime knows which way she wants to go.)

“You gave me a name.” Urihime stands, and learns for the first time that she is taller than Natori. “You returned to me my agency and my ability to be contribute to the world. Natori-sama, if you asked it, I would cut off all my hair. I would bind myself to this tree again. I would eat my own name.”

Natori stares. His mouth opens and closes without saying words.

That is fine. If Urihime has learned anything these last few years, it is patience. She marvels at the feeling of her hair tugged down by gravity, at the strain of holding herself up alone, at the ability to walk in any direction she pleases.

(She thinks perhaps she does not mind if she is ugly, if it means going where she will.)

“Thank you, Urihime,” Natori says finally, straightening. “What you’ve said means a great deal to me. I would be honored to work with you, but I would never ask you to do those things to yourself.”

Humans are fickle creatures, but Natori has proven to himself to be kind. She believes him. “As you say, Natori-sama,” she says.

“Also,” the boy hesitates, “you also don’t have to call me that.”

“Call you what, Natori-sama?”

“That. The uh. The honorific.”

“If you insist, Natori-sama,” she says, face smooth.

Natori squints at her. “Now you’re just teasing me.”

 

 

Serving as Natori Shuuichi’s first shiki proves to be an undertaking.

Natori lives in a timeworn house with an attractive garden in the center of a human village. Although the grounds are sprawling, she learns that only three people live there: Natori, his father, and an injured grandfather who is rarely seen. A servant woman named Sumi comes daily to keep the house.

“What do you want me to do?” she asks, the first time she crosses the threshold with her new exorcist. Natori looks up at her, slightly confused.

“Whatever you want to do, I guess. I’ll tell you if I need help with something,” Natori says, before disappearing into a small storehouse.

After a moment of consideration, Urihime follows him.

It becomes her new routine: during the day, she follows Natori on odd jobs cleansing family homes or investigating small disturbances; at night, she patrols the perimeter of the house, scaring off opportunistic stragglers.

At Natori’s request, she does not follow him to school. Instead, she tries to mend the protective wards, but they are old and tattered. Her first week as a shiki, a large mite slips past the boundary, drawn by Natori’s budding abilities, and manages to get into Natori’s bedroom before Urihime tangles it with her hair.

Natori has the gall to look surprised by the disturbance and insists that she let the creature go. “It was just hungry, I think,” Natori argues. “You know I don’t exorcise youkai who don’t deserve it.”

Urihime thinks the creature—squirming and shrieking in her knot of hair—very much deserves it, but she acquiesces.

Still, she scowls after the creature as it darts into the darkness. It is in moments like this when she remembers that Natori is little more than a child; she will have to work harder to ensure that he can recognize dangers when they arise.

 

 

On Urihime’s first job with Natori, they track down a thief stealing from a hokora, but the thief turns out to be two thieves, two clever tanuki. This causes them to split up briefly before the tanuki can be dealt with, and Urihime returns to find Natori braced against the hokora hiding a vicious bite on one arm.

“When you are in danger, you must call for me, Natori-sama,” Urihime scolds. Although the injury this time is more painful than threatening, she still frets over it and takes additional precautions when cleansing and binding it. “It is the only way I will know you need my help.”

“I know that.” Natori, at least, seems abashed by the situation. He frowns intently at his hands. It reminds her of when he puzzles over a new incantation. “I’m just—not accustomed to asking for help.”

Urihime has seen glimpses of Natori’s conversations with his father and his exchanges with his peers; she has an inkling as to why.

“Then you must learn,” Urihime says. She ties the bandage with a neat knot and releases Natori’s hand.

He tests the bandage and nods, already smiling at her. “Of course, Urihime.”

 

 

Still, he does not call her.

 

 

Meanwhile, Natori’s father calls him many names, none of them out of love. Urihime listens to their frequent arguments—if a conversation can be considered an argument when one party insults and the other simply listens—incensed on Natori’s behalf.  _Worthless_ ,  _liar_ ,  _attention-seeking_ ,  _needy_...

“Natori-sama,” Urihime says as he reads in the storehouse that evening. “I do not like your father.”

In the lantern light, her human looks more wan and fatigued than usual, the shadows under his eyes more pronounced, but he still smiles up at her. “He is difficult sometimes, that’s true.”

“He demeans and humiliates you,” Urihime says. The smile drops from Natori’s face. “He questions your worth and your work as an exorcist. He accuses you of crimes you have not done and allows you to take improper care of yourself."

Natori is silent.

“If you like, I could slaughter him,” Urihime suggests kindly.

“What—no!” Natori stares at her as if she’s suggested devouring the man’s name. “Absolutely—no slaughtering! No slaughtering at all, ever!”

Urihime considers this.

“If I cannot slaughter the man, I could bind his soul to a lesser form. It would be painless and would leave him in a state of living.” Too good for him, she thinks, but for Natori she is capable of leniency.

“That’s not necessary,” Natori says firmly. He fishes his glasses out of a pocket and slides them on to look at her. “My father is a flawed individual, but so am I. Whatever tension exists between us is the result of misfortune and our shared flaws. The best solution is to wait until I am old enough to leave.”

She narrows her eyes. “Why not leave immediately, then?”

“It’s complicated. Humans have rules about when kids leave home and live independently,” he explains. “I’m still a too young, but I’ll be old enough soon.”

“Ridiculous,” Urihime fumes. “You are a good child and a skilled exorcist. I’m sure any other household would be happy to have you. If your guardian is not worthy, you must find another guardian who does not cause you pain.”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that with humans,” Natori says in a tone clearly intended to end the conversation.” Natori gazes up at her just as the lizard flickers across his face. “But thank you, Urihime. I’m lucky to have you looking after me.”

Urihime hesitates. She wants to reach out and grab Natori, but Natori has already turned away. She keeps her hands clenched at her sides.

It’s frustrating.

It feels like being back in the vine.

 

 

A solution of sorts occurs to her a few days later. She is passing through the kitchen as Natori and his father sit down for dinner. It’s rare for them to eat together, as neither human seems to enjoy the ritual, but it still happens from time to time. Urihime hates these evenings, as Natori always returns from dinner dispirited and sullen to spend the night immersed in work, but out of concern for Natori’s dignity she tries not to linger or to allow the dinners to become a spectacle.

On this particular night, however, with an idea unfolding in her mind, Urihime sits at the table.

Natori’s eyes flick to her and away just as quickly, a grimace on his face. The meal continues in silence however, with Natori clearly reluctant to draw attention to her in front of his father.

Eventually, Natori’s father breaks the silence. “How are your grades?” He rarely looks at his son, preferring to focus on his food. This is fine—it will make what Urihime has planned easier.

Natori hesitates before he answers, selecting his words carefully. “We had an exam on polynomials.”

“And?”

“I got a 95.”

Natori’s father snorts.

“Congratulations, Natori-sama,” Urihime says, folding her hands in her lap. Natori’s glances towards her again, eyes wide, then back to his plate.

“All that studying this last week and you only got a 95?” Natori’s father shakes his head. “You can do better, Shuuichi.”

“You did a commendable job,” Urihime says. “I’m sure all your hard work paid off.”

“Anything else?”

“The school is putting on a play. I was cast in one of the roles,” Natori adds.

“A play?” Natori’s father scoffs. “What a waste of time—better to focus on your grades, if you’re struggling so much. You should drop out.”

“That sounds lovely, Natori-sama,” says Urihime. “I can’t wait to see you perform.”

This time, Natori keeps his gaze fixed on his plate, but Urihime catches a flicker of a smile anyway.

 

 

The next week, Urihime follows Natori to school to track down a stray he spotted harassing the some of the students. She’s just snatched up an energy-sucking youkai that’s little more than a leech when someone calls out, “Natori-san!”

She turns to watch an unfamiliar student trotting down the hall, completely oblivious of her presence. She steps neatly out of his way when he approaches Natori. “It looked like you dozed off in class again—is everything alright?”

“Who is this?” Urihime asks.

“Tomita-san,” Natori says. “I’m just a bit tired, that’s all. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“Oh, okay,” says the boy, Tomita, shifting from foot to foot. It reminds Urihime of a common songbird hopping on the ground. “Would you like to borrow my notes again?”

“Do you like this one?” Urihime asks, peering closer at his face. The boy is not lovely like Natori, but there is some charm in his freckles and the easy way he smiles. “If you are interested, I could help you to entrance him, Natori-sama.”

“That’s not necessary!” Natori says, blushing furiously. Belatedly, he tacks on, “but thank you, Tomita-san,” and speedwalks away.

“Um, okay! See you tomorrow, then,” Tomita calls after him.

Urihime follows behind him more placidly, smiling at the squirming youkai still caught in her hand.

  

 

Urihime does not care for the Matoba child.

“A shiki, Natori?” the little oath-breaker says, smiling up at her. He is a tweedy sprout, barely a breath old—younger than Natori even—who had slithered out from behind a tree in the middle of the forest. She does not like to consider how long he must have had to follow Natori in order to pull that trick off. She glowers at the child, quelling the tendrils of her hair that wish to wrap around his insolent form and strangle him.

“Yes,” says Natori smoothly, the picture of diplomacy. “This is Urihime. Urihime, this is Matoba.”

Urihime is not in the habit of speaking to other humans, so she dips her head as slightly as possible.

“Ah,” the Matoba child smirks, as if delighted by her indignation. “A peculiar name for a peculiar creature. Where on earth did you dig her up, Shuuichi-kun?”

Urihime hates him. Child or not, she’s going to kill him, if the eye-eater doesn’t get him first.

Natori smiles. “You said you had a contract for me, Matoba?”

Matoba continues to stare at Urihime for a moment longer, a curious expression on his face. It is not unlike Natori’s own smiles.

“Yes, that’s right,” the exorcist says suddenly, turning abruptly to Natori. “There’s a youkai that likes to pull handsome men into a river. No one has died yet, but it’s only a matter of time.

“Why come to me?” Natori starts walking along the forest path again, clearly expecting Matoba to follow. Matoba raises an eyebrow and jogs to catch up. “If it’s drowning handsome men, wouldn’t it be better to send a woman, or yourself, for instance?”

“Oh, ha ha,” says Matoba dryly. “The Matoba clan is currently focusing on a much larger threat in the Yatsuhara, so I thought perhaps you would be well-suited for the job. Unless you’re too busy…?”

Natori looks askance at the Matoba child and shrugs. “I’m sure I can make some time for it.”

In the silence that follows, it becomes clear they all know Natori hasn’t received a single contract in the last three weeks.

 

 

He stays up late that night, and then the next night, pouring over old eyewitness accounts of river gods and weeping women to find something that fits Matoba’s description. Urihime watches Natori suffer through school and conversations at home as he sinks deepening fatigue. When the woman Sumi lets him disappear into the storehouse for the third night in a row without a comment, Urihime follows.

“Natori-sama.”

Urihime crouches next to him. She doesn’t cast a shadow in the yellow lantern light of the storehouse, but Natori does: it seems like a small curled beetle on the wall. “I was under the impression that humans require hours of sleeps each day. Is that not correct?”

Natori only glances up at her briefly when he answers, “Usually that’s true, but sometimes it’s okay to skip a few hours. This isn’t anything to worry about.”

Urihime lingers, glancing over Natori’s shoulder at a page empty of intent or meaning. Human nonsense. She looks back to Natori. “You will suffer tomorrow if you do not sleep,” she states.

“Mm. Only a little.”

Urihime does not know what to do to make her human stop hurting himself, so she watches him in silence.

Eventually he lowers the manuscript and looks back.

“Are you worried about me, Urihime?” he smiles, as if in jest.

“Yes,” she says, plainly.

Natori stares at her.

“I can bring you blankets or clean clothes if that will help you to sleep,” Urihime offers. She’s unclear on the requirements for sleeping, but both seem popular among humans. “Or I can make protective talismans and guard your room if you are worried about more intruders.”

“Oh,” Natori says, blinking rapidly. Clearly a signs of his fatigue. He rubs his eyes. “That’s okay, but—no, you’re right. It is late, and I have a history quiz tomorrow, so I should probably go. To sleep. I should go to sleep.”

He makes no movements to do so.

“Natori-sama.”

“I'm going to sleep now,” he repeats.

“Very good, Natori-sama,” she says encouragingly, as she pries the text from his hand. She ushers him to his bedroom and makes fully certain that he does go to bed.

Then she bring extra blankets anyway, because it is winter and she suspects Natori is more secretly more fragile than he lets on.

 

 

Natori spends that weekend walking along the dark river, tracing paths through the snow-crusted shore, growing more and more frustrated as the man-snatching youkai continues to elude them. Finally, Natori dismisses her, convinced the youkai is too afraid of being outnumbered, and continues his walk alone.

As a result, she is not there.

She is not there when Natori turns his back to the dark river, still sluggish with snow, and two pale hands wrap around his middle.

She is not there when Natori looks down at the hands in surprise and tries to pry them off.

She is not there when Natori gasps out, “Urihime!” just before the hands yank him in.

She flickers into place above the river, searching for Natori. When she spots a pale body just below the surface, she dives for it, wraps her hair around his waist and pulls. The creature pulls back, but Urihime is much stronger, and soon both Natori—sopping wet, gasping—and the creature are wrenched to shore.

Urihime follows, spinning her hair around her like a shield and landing between Natori and his attacker, a shivering woman in a white kimono.

Behind her, Natori pulls out an ofuda and murmurs an incantation that sets Urihime’s hair on edge. The ofuda straightens out and holds itself up. With a word from Natori, it flies towards the river youkai and plasters itself to her forehead.

In the brief moment that follows, the woman looks at Urihime with ice-white eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says. Her tears freeze to her cheeks. “I was just cold.”

Then she scatters into light.

 

 

“Urihime,” Natori says, laughing through the cold. He hair is dripping water and his skin is an alarming blue around the edges. “You came to get me.”

“Stupid child!” Urihime scolds. She yanks her haori off and wraps it snug around the boy, manhandling him onto her shoulder.

Urihime cannot travel quickly unless summoned, so she carries Natori home on her back, monitoring him for signs of a worsening condition. He clings to her, trembling and chattering away about inane things until they reach the patchwork barrier of the Natori residence. Relieved, Urihime drags him inside and forces him into a bath, and then bed.

She buries him in blankets. He giggles, “You were really cool, floating over the river like that.”

“Hush,” Urihime says. She places a hand on his forehead as she’s seen some mothers do, but she can’t tell if Natori is burning hot or cold.

 

 

.

 

 

When Natori wakes up in the morning, he wakes as his bedroom—immaculate, barely used these days—fills with the pink sunlight. He turns his head and sees Urihime, kneeling beside his futon with her hands in her lap. In her kimono and long black hair, Urihime looks like a princess from an old court painting.

“Idiot boy,” she says in greeting.

“Urihime,” Natori says, smiling.

She glowers at him and Natori cannot help a surge of guilt. He can tell from her pinched mouth that she spent the night worrying about him.

“You will not do that again,” she commands.

Natori is silent a moment. He prefers to avoid lying to Urihime, as she’s one of the few beings with whom lies are not necessary. He confesses, “It’s likely that I _will_ do that again.”

Behind her, Urihime’s hair flickers like it does when she’s frustrated, like she’s suspended in water. Natori sighs and tries to push himself up.

“Thank you for coming to get me.”

Urihime scowls at him and presses him down. Says, “You did not think I would.”

“I did not know either way.” Natori wiggles for a moment, trying to push up again. “I’m not used to accepting help from others.”

“I will always come when you call for me,” Urihime insists, easily pushing him back down.

“I know that,” Natori says. “I know that now.”

“Good,” Urihime says. She sounds as if she doesn’t quiet believe him, not yet.

Maybe, Natori thinks, that’s okay. He closes his eyes and settles in, accepting the fact that apparently the rest of his morning will be spent in bed.

Some things take time.

“Urihime?”

He hears her sigh, but it sounds more fond than weary. Cold fingers ruffle his hair. “Yes, Natori-sama?”

“You look beautiful today.”

**Author's Note:**

> Not featured: the scene where Urihime helps Natori practice lines for his school play.
> 
> This was a response to Natsume Week day 2: found family and day 6: exorcists. It's also probably the longest story I've ever written. The pacing seems weird and I'm sure there are typos, but I'm still pretty proud.


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